


Lonely Nights

by Hinn_Raven



Series: A Softer Gotham [2]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dimension Travel, Gen, Stephanie Brown is Spoiler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23124955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinn_Raven/pseuds/Hinn_Raven
Summary: After Stephanie Brown saves Martha and Thomas Wayne one night, instead of going back to her own universe, the Spoiler finds herself stuck in the wrong Gotham for a while longer, and gets to see some of the fallout of her choices.
Relationships: Stephanie Brown & Bruce Wayne
Series: A Softer Gotham [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662229
Comments: 23
Kudos: 303





	Lonely Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [0urhappygirl500](https://archiveofourown.org/users/0urhappygirl500/gifts).



> As requested by 0urhappygirl500, this is a spinoff of my fic "One Night", with the premise that Steph ends up stuck in the AU Gotham a while longer! Heavily recommend you read that one first, but if you're too busy, just know this: Steph saves the Waynes, she gives Bruce some advice and a batarang. 
> 
> Warnings for this fic! We've got discussions of gun violence and police brutality, homelessness, violence, and references to domestic abuse and drug usage. Also I make fun of the Court of Owls. That's not really a warning, but I know how opinionated comic fans can get, being one myself and all.

The others don’t come. Or at least, they don’t come that night.

Stephanie Brown waits, but they don’t come.

Instead, she tracks down a man named Joe Chill—a plain, ordinary man, cruel in his desperation, cowardly down to his bones. He’s arrested for possession of a stolen weapon, for assault and theft and a dozen petty crimes that she can’t even name.

She watches them take him away from the rooftops.

He had no idea what he had been doing, in that alley. He hadn’t recognized Thomas or Martha Wayne any more than she had. Had drugs or alcohol blurred his recognition, or were the comings and goings of the socialites of Gotham just been beyond his notice? Either way, all he had seen were good clothes, a gleaming watch, the elegance of a string of pearls. Had he even noticed Bruce?

He would have killed them. He hadn’t, as far as she could tell, killed anyone before, and as far as she knew, he had never killed anyone again, in her world.

There were only two deaths at this man’s hands. Two bullets, fired with erraticism and no skill, a horrific ricochet more than deadly intent, but in the end, the result was the same. Two horrific, deadly shots, echoing into the night, a little boy screaming, and the entire world had spiraled.

He had nearly destroyed one boy’s life. He had nearly created Batman. He had, quite possibly, saved the universe.

Steph can’t think about that last part. She _has_ to think about this part instead: there had been people in trouble, and she had helped. She’s here, she’s solid, she remembers where she’s come from and who she is.

She hasn’t destroyed everything, back home.

And she’ll have to make sure that things here haven’t been damaged by her decision.

* * *

Martha Wayne helps her son cut out newspaper clippings of the Spoiler every morning before school.

The first morning, after that night, he hadn’t gone to school. She hadn’t gone to the Foundation, either, and Thomas hadn’t gone to the hospital. Alfred had made hot chocolate and the three of them had piled into Bruce’s bed, each heartbeat all the more treasured, for the realization of how close it had been.

But life must go on.

It’s… a wake-up call. The man who attacked them has been arrested, and it’s just another reminder of how _bad_ things are, here in their city, only a few miles from their home.

The first thing Martha does is write her will.

Oh, there was one beforehand, but it was a joke of a thing. Everything to Bruce, a nice pension for Alfred, a trust in her name here and there. All with the horrifying assumption, unnoticed until after Spoiler and her cape, that Thomas would be around, even if she wasn’t.

She updates the will.

And then she goes back to the kitchen table to help Bruce finish clipping the newspapers.

There’s an excellent picture of Spoiler on the front page, two days after the incident in the alleyway. Her cape is fluttering out behind her, one hand raised to her neck as if to hold it, as she spins towards the camera, the lenses of her mask impassive

She’s young. Not as young as Bruce, but still young.

Martha helps Bruce start his scrapbook, and then she goes to visit her brother.

* * *

It’s hard, being a solo vigilante.

Steph runs herself ragged, racing across the length and breadth of Gotham, trying to do everything she can. It’s not the pure, untamed violence and cruelty that had defined those years before Batman or the first years of his existence. It’s not the calculated, cautious playing field that she knows now, where everything is a delicate game between major players.

There aren’t supervillains. The old Mafia families are still in control, at the height of their security but not of their power. Things are starting to crumble, but it’s not… it’s not where it will be. She can see that now, the fault lines that are starting to show.

A housing complex that famously burns down in ten years is still there, and she can see the signs of overcrowding, of violated codes.

A politician is running for office who she remembers as being steadfastly dirty, in her time, before he’s murdered by Two Face.

She stops robberies and muggings and murders, she escorts a couple of teenagers safely home, she kicks the ass of a guy who’s harassing some sex workers. She tries to treat this like any normal night, back home.

It’s easy enough, all things considered, to pretend that it’s just another time where Bruce is mad at her for one reason or the other, to act like that radio silence is just her being ignored because of her latest screw up.

Honestly, when dawn begins to push out the nighttime darkness, the thing that gives her the most pause is that **Mom** is gone. There’s no home to go home to, no Crystal Brown to help ice her bruises and to remind her to shower and eat before collapsing into bed.

Well.

That’s too bad, but she’s been through worse.

She finds a nice, abandoned apartment building, and passes out on the floor. She’ll figure out food and stuff in the… afternoon? Afternoon sounds good.

* * *

Jacob Kane nearly lost his sister the other night.

The newspapers are practically salivating over the drama of it all—a late night showing, a dark alley, a string of pearls, a mugger with nothing to lose, a vigilante in a cape, his sister _shot_.

Jacob is the youngest of four siblings. Nathan is the oldest, then Phillip, then Martha, then himself.

He’d been close with Martha, once upon a time. But then college had happened, and the army, and Martha had fallen in love with _Thomas Wayne_ , of all people.

They’d fallen out—dramatically, too, even if it had been dwarfed by Martha’s fight with their father—and even though things were better between them, since Bruce and the twins were born, things are still not _good_.

He’s surprised, all told, when Martha shows up at his door unannounced, her arm still in a sling, and her expression odd.

“Martha?”

“Jacob,” she responds, her smile fleeting and thin.

They go through the motions of politeness. He offers her a drink, she refuses, he insists, they ask after the kids and the spouses and friends one has seen recently, they talk about the weather and how glad they are that the sun is finally out, and then finally, _finally_ , she sets down her cup of tea and looks him straight in the eye.

“You know the gun that man shot me with was a Hamilton pistol?”

Without meaning to, Jacob automatically turns to look at the fireplace, where a Hamilton Rifle is mounted, gleaming and antique.

“No.”

“Bought legally. Sold legally. And that man nearly killed me with it.” She’s gripping her sling with one hand. Her social mask is in place still, despite the ferocity of the words tumbling out of her mouth. “ _Our guns_ , Jacob. _Our guns_.”

He looks away. “I—”

“We need to do something, Jacob,” she whispers, her perfect socialite mask cracking.

Jacob sighs. “Martha. We can’t just… just _stop_ our company from making guns.”

“We’re shareholders, aren’t we?” She demands.

“Between us, we’ve got what. Twenty percent?” Jacob sighs. “Phillip and Nathaniel have another ten each, Dad’s got thirty, plus Mom’s twenty which he’s got custody of?”

“And your daughters,” she says. “They’ve got five percent each.”

Which is more than Bruce has, because their father hates Thomas Wayne, but she’s not saying it.

“Okay fine,” he says. “Thirty. But even if we somehow get Nate and Phil to side with each other against Dad—Dad’s not going to budge. And he’s the chair.”

She looks furious. “We can’t just give up, Jacob.”

“I’m not—look, you’ve had a rough week, I know you’re upset—”

“My family was nearly _murdered_ , Jacob,” she snaps. “Of course I’m upset!” She gets to her feet and starts pacing. “We have to take responsibility for this, Jacob,” she says. “We need to do _something_. We’re profiting off those weapons. We’re profiting off _violence_.”

Jacob can’t help it. He bristles. “Our grandfather founded Hamilton Rifles to fight Nazi Germany, to defend this family!”

“And if it weren’t for a teenaged vigilante, it’d have killed part of this family!” She yells. 

Silence reigns for a moment.

“I need to convince them, Jacob,” she says, her social mask completely gone, and laid bare is the fact that she, her husband, and her son, nearly died. “Will you help me?”

Jacob doesn’t hesitate. He gets to his feet and he embraces his sister.

“Of course,” he says. “Of course.”

* * *

There’s a battered women’s shelter a few blocks away from where Steph ended up sleeping the morning away, and Steph makes her way there after fishing a pair of jeans and a Gotham Knights sweater out of the charity bin. She’s got a few pretty obvious bruises, so no one bats (no pun intended) an eye at her grabbing a few pamphlets. She’s offered a cheese sandwich for lunch, and she manages to grab a precious, precious shower.

She makes a note of the name, so she can look it up when she gets back home and convince Bruce to give them a nice big generous donation.

“You don’t have to go back, you know,” the woman at the front desk says. “You can stay here—we’ve got beds, whoever did that to you won’t know you’re here.”

“It’s okay,” Steph says, forcing herself to smile. “I’ve got a few things to take care of. Thank you, though.”

She slips away, so that the Spoiler can patrol again that night.

* * *

Alfred Pennyworth doesn’t know what to do with this whole vigilante business. Spoiler obviously did an incredible service the likes of which can never be repaid.

But Alfred has also discovered a strange bat-shaped metal knife beneath Bruce’s mattress, and the boy is now obsessed with her.

Vigilantism is hardly the safest profession, and she seems to be rather young.

Well, there are many ways to go about this. Master Bruce has not been the easiest person to ever dissuade from something that he’s set his mind to, and, well…

Alfred has seen the photos. That young woman looks like she’s not having the easiest time of it.

Master Bruce has noticed it too.

“I want to help her,” he says to Bruce. “She—she says that no one helped her, before, but I want to help her _now_.”

… Bruce certainly has a large heart.

“I’ll see what we can do,” he promises.

After making a few inquiries with some of his old contacts, he manages to procure a bulletproof vest, and then he carefully sets about putting together a collection of cash in small bills, bottled water, tinned food that keeps well and doesn’t require heat, a sewing kit with a needle strong enough to sew through what he strongly suspects is bullet proof fabric, and a decent supply of feminine hygiene products.

He then packs Bruce into the most modest vehicle that the Waynes own—it’s still very conspicuous, of course, so Alfred instead drives to Leslie’s house and borrows hers—and then drives them both to Crime Alley.

“A stake out?” Bruce asks dubiously.

“You said that this Spoiler character has been spotted around here quite frequently,” Alfred says, completely ignoring that his own research has corroborated this. “It seems like a good way to encounter her again.”

Alfred hardly expects the boy to have the patience for a proper stake out, so Alfred has, among other things, packed a chessboard, a thermos of hot cocoa, and Bruce’s favorite sandwiches. But, much to his surprise, Bruce takes to it surprisingly well, keeping his eyes peeled and staying almost perfectly still.

Spoiler eventually emerges from what Alfred would have sworn was an abandoned apartment on a ramshackle building that should probably be condemned. She emerges onto the fire escape, tugging her hood up over her unusual black face mask, and up close, Alfred can see that her outfit has definitely sustained damage.

She crouches on the fire escape, scanning the streets below her, before looking up.

Her eyes land on them immediately, and Alfred can see her tensing for a moment, as if planning on fleeing, before she spots Bruce and visibly relaxes.

She pulls a grapple out of her belt and arrives on their roof very quickly.

“What brings you here?” She asks, looking honestly surprised.

“Master Bruce has been worried about your condition,” Alfred says, nudging the boy, who immediately offers Spoiler the black duffle bag. “We believe that this should make things a little easier for you.”

“I—thank you,” she says, sounding touched. “Uh—sorry, I’m, uh. Spoiler.”

“Alfred,” he says, smiling at her. Up close, she’s younger than he thought. A teenager still, not a young woman. He wonders what has led her here, and he worries.

“… thanks, Alfred. Bruce.”

“Miss, ah, Spoiler. I couldn’t help but notice your current abode. Are you sleeping adequately? I’m certain I can acquire a sleeping bag for you.”

“That’s… that’s very nice, but I—”

“If you don’t sleep well, you might make a mistake,” Bruce says, crossing his arms. “You could get hurt!”

It’s amazing how expressive she managed to be, despite the mask. “I—I wouldn’t want you to have to go to any trouble,” she says.

“No trouble at all, Miss Spoiler.”

He gets the distinct impression she’s smiling at him. “Please. Call me Steph.”

* * *

Alfred’s cooking is as amazing as ever, and even better after nearly a week of living mainly off vending machine snacks and McDonalds as bought for her by a few grateful would-be-victims.

“How long have you been… doing this sort of activity?” Alfred asks, as Steph takes a huge bite out of one of the sandwiches he had brought for his and Bruce’s stakeout. In the bag for her, the food is more practical and less delicious, but she’s still _super_ grateful for it.

“What, being a vigilante?” She pauses, thinking. “Three years?” She catches Alfred’s look. “Not here. Uh, far away. I just got here.”

He frowns at her but accepts her answer.

Bruce is staring at her with a fascination that she… doesn’t really know what to do with. It’s _Bruce Wayne_. He looks like he might _smile_.

This is so far out of her department, she doesn’t know what to even _think_.

“What was the bat?” He asks, quietly, while Alfred goes down to the car to go get a sleeping bag.

She looks at him, and considers how to explain. “Someone very smart once told me… that we’re scared of criminals, right? But that’s the thing. Really, _they’re_ ones who scare easily. They jump at shadows, they have all of these… rituals, and things.”

“Superstitious,” Bruce says, his eyes wide.

“Right,” Steph confirms. “And so like… people are scared of bats, you know? They’re good at moving through the dark, and people never really know if they’re there. And that scares bad guys. It’s a symbol. A symbol of how you don’t have to be scared anymore. How it’s _their_ turn to be scared. How you can fight back.”

Bruce sits with that, clearly turning it over in his mind, until Alfred comes back with the heavy-duty sleeping bag.

On impulse, she hugs him.

“Thanks, Mister Pennyworth,” she says. “You and Bruce are the best!”

She quickly leaves after that, because it’s time to patrol, but the food and the company definitely did her some good. 

* * *

Leslie Thompkins calls up Thomas Wayne. “Thomas. Why is your lawyer calling me about building three new clinics?”

“Because it’s been brought to my attention, my dear Leslie—”

“You only flatter me when you want something, Thomas.”

He sighs. “So… I might be re-examining the way that we’re donating funds?”

Leslie cradles the phone between her shoulder and her ear. “Is this about nearly dying?”

“I—yes. Probably? The Foundation it’s—it’s just not doing enough. And I can’t just ignore things anymore.”

“I told you that you—”

“I know. I should have looked earlier. I should have—it was _easier_ , to leave all the funds in the hands of the board, and just… pretend the money’s not there. That I’m just a doctor.”

“A doctor who lives in a mansion. With a butler.”

“I—I know, Leslie,” he says. “But I want to do better.”

She softens slightly, despite herself. “Thomas—”

“Will you come over?” He blurts out. “You—you know this city better than anyone. And you can’t tell me you don’t have a thousand plans in that brain of yours about how an idiot with a couple hundred million dollars can fix this city.”

She bites her lip to stop herself from laughing. “Well. I think I can pencil you in,” she allows. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen Bruce, of course.”

He sighs in relief. “Thank you, Leslie.”

* * *

The real weird part about this Gotham is how few people she knows.

Most of the players that she’s familiar with are of Bruce’s generation, or younger. She recognizes a couple of the names—Mafia players again, usually, but she has no idea how to tackle organized crime, that requires a lot more intelligence than she’s capable of gathering right now.

But Harvey Dent, Thomas Elliot, Roman Sionis, Jonathan Crane, Selina Kyle… they’re nowhere to be found. The Iceberg Lounge isn’t operating, no one’s ever heard of the League of Shadows, and even the kids aren’t chanting about the Court of Owls.

She’s suspicious about that last part, because aren’t they supposed to be some ancient organization? What’s up with that?

She knew she hated those beady-eyed bastards. Maybe they really _weren’t_ an ancient conspiracy, they just were assholes with too much money with a good PR machine who liked to screw with Batman.

If they hadn’t gotten into ritual murder and assassination, she could have gotten behind that agenda, honestly.

But as it is, she’s got no idea what major plots she’s supposed to be unravelling.

So mostly, she’s sticking with her default of “see a crime, punch a crime.”

It feels like a relatively safe place to operate out of, considering what she’s working with.

* * *

Bruce opens his bedroom window to allow for Spoiler to crawl through.

“Are you sure about this, Bruce?” She asks, as Bruce helps her take off her mask.

Of course, he’s sure—he was sure when he gave her his phone number. He was sure when she called him, asking him if he knows how to find Doctor Leslie Thompkins, because she’s been hurt, and she needs a doctor, and she’s heard good things about Doctor Thompkins. He was sure when he told her to come _here_ , because Dad is here, and Leslie is here too, and so between the two of them they’ll be able to fix Spoiler up just fine.

Stephanie looks tired, under her mask, and he wants to hug her, but he’s not sure where she’s hurt, and that might not be a good idea.

“Who did it?” He says, finally realizing it’s her arm—she’s holding it funny, and upon closer examination, the black fabric is wet with blood.

“A police officer,” she says.

Bruce stops, and stares. “ _What_? But police are the good guys!”

She shrugs. “Maybe sometimes. But first and foremost, they’re people, Bruce. And some of them are people who care more about following the rules than about helping people.”

“But—”

“Bruce,” she says, firmly, looking at him seriously. “Sometimes, the people who do the most damage are people who everyone thinks are going to help. It means that people don’t look at them when something goes wrong. It means that when they hurt someone, people assume it’s the fault of the person who got hurt. It means that some very bad people choose to become cops. And it means that a lot of people? They can’t ever trust the police. Because they don’t know who will help them or who will hurt them.” She touches his shoulder with her good arm. “And it means? That one of _my_ jobs? Is to protect _everyone_. Especially from people like that.”

“Did the cop mean to shoot you?”

“No,” she says, grim. “He was aiming for someone else.” She looks at him. “Bruce. Do you still want me to be here?”

Bruce doesn’t even have to think about it. “Yes. Come on, Leslie’s downstairs.”

* * *

Steph is so, so tired. Leslie had stitched her up, even making Thomas Wayne leave the room so Steph would remove her mask so she could check for a concussion.

But then she had to sneak out again, because Leslie was threatening to drag her back to her apartment to get some proper rest, and Steph wasn’t about to let that happen. Leslie is amazing, she loves her to bits, she’s like the cool aunt or maybe even grandmother that Steph never had, but…

She’s not _her_ Leslie.

She leaves through Bruce’s room and leaves him a note to apologize for leaving without saying goodbye.

On a whim, she doodles a bat in the corner of the note, and then circles it in a heart.

All told, she’s been in this world for three weeks. The newspapers are starting to get bored of her, and are instead yelling something about the Kane family’s feud over ownership of their Hamilton Rifle company that she’s not really interested in.

But the Waynes are alive, and Bruce Wayne seems relatively interested in vigilantism.

She… she probably hasn’t broken anything?

She props her chin up on her fist, and stares out over the skyline.

What will change, with the Waynes alive? She’s never really put too much thought into the upper class of Gotham, not the ones who she hasn’t personally met, at least.

But… she knows that the Wayne Foundation has done some good stuff—she and her mom lived in a few apartments they built, when dad was in jail and they were subletting the house because they couldn’t keep up with the mortgage payments.

Maybe the foundation will be bigger? Better?

Or maybe nothing will change. Maybe it will just be Bruce who changes, now having his parents, and not having to deal with that horrific trauma that Steph _knows_ still haunts him to this day.

Maybe he’ll still be Batman, or maybe not. Maybe someone else will step up instead—Dick Grayson, Barbara Gordon, Helena Bertinelli, or someone who she’s never met.

But… maybe if he’s Batman… maybe he’ll be a little softer. A little kinder. Maybe he’ll understand a desperate teenaged girl in purple, painting clues on the side of a building, just a little more.

Somehow, she’s not surprised when the portal opens behind her, just as she thinks that.

Cass plops down besides her.

“There you are,” Cass says, looking relieved.

“Took you long enough,” Steph says, grinning at her.

“Sorry,” Cass says.

Steph reaches over and hugs Cass tightly.

“Can we go home?” Steph asks.

She’s been so, so lonely.

“Of course,” Cass says. She grabs Steph by the hand and pulls her to her feet.

And the two of them move through the portal and go home.

* * *

Bruce finds a note in Steph’s apartment, on top of the duffle bag that he and Alfred had made for her.

_Bruce,_

_I’m sorry, I hope I get to tell you this in person, but as a smart man once told me, always have a backup plan._

_I didn’t mean to come here. I ended up here by accident, and I need to go home. I hope I’ve helped here, and I almost wish I could stay, but my family needs me._

_But I’m so, so glad that I managed to meet you. That I could be there for you, on your one bad night. I will never forget you. I hope you don’t forget me._

_Remember the bat. Remember how you felt when you were scared, and how you felt when someone came. Make sure you always cause the second feeling, and never the first, when people need your help._

_You’re going to be amazing, Bruce. I know it._

_Your friend,_

_Stephanie Brown, the Spoiler._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys had fun with this one! 
> 
> If you feel like it, please drop a comment over here or over on Tumblr, where I'm @[secretlystephaniebrown](http://secretlystephaniebrown.tumblr.com/)!


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